


Wish You Were Here

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:39:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul's mum has just died and Georgie is comforting him :) sorry, it's not very good ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish You Were Here

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Hi. Sorry. Just felt the need to add this, in case I'm suspected of owning the Beatles. I don't. I own them about as much as my goldfish, Gary, which (sadly) is the same as not owning them in the slightest :( It's sad, I know. But I do own a great many POSTERS, so I can look at their beautiful faces every day! No wait, thats creepy ... sorry! I DON'T OWN THE BEATLES!

You feel as though you're dead, and all the life has been sucked out of you from the mouth and punched you in the stomach. You're perpetually numb and though you wish for the feeling to return, you dread that eventuality because you know it will finish you off, enveloping you like a baby swaddled in blankets, and you won't be able to get away from the clinging claustrophobia of life. This metaphor is appropriate for your predicament; instead of blankets, you have problems.

Your father has told you that you have to go back to school. He says your friends will help you get over the pain of losing her, but you know he's wrong. He's wrong, as much as you hate for that to be the case, and though your friends used to be a vital part of your life, they have now faded into practically nothing, and you can't bear to face them, let alone the crowded hustle and bustle of school. But your dad says it will help take your mind off things, so you're going. You're going, if only to make him happy, and set an example to Mike, because Mike has taken it just as bad as you though he's not as strong. And you don't think he can manage it on his own.

oOo

You walk to school. You can't handle the bus, with all your friends sitting smoking at the back, calling your name and George's quiet, kind questions prodding persistently at your mind, while he stares concernedly at you with an expression just like his voice and those beautiful brown eyes which make you want to tell him everything and nothing at the same time. The walk, however, just makes you even more nervous. You start to procrastinate, willing away all those niggling doubts at the back of your mind and unearthing feelings you've tried to push away for school. Finally, when you reach the gates, you realise you're about to cry.

You walk up the corridor to your tutor group quickly so as to avoid talking to people, and dodge past the smiling mothers you see on your way there. You think it's unfair how they get to live for so long compared to your own. Why should they be given a longer life? What deems them more worthy of life than the woman you knew for just 14 years but who you loved more than anyone else in the whole world? You make a quick stop at the loos; swipe away the salty tears making tracks down your face, keeping your head down so no one sees you crying.

You take a seat at your desk, ignoring the cries of, 'PAUL MCCARTNEY! Why weren't you here the past few days?' and, 'we missed you!' You let your head rest on your arms and try to blank everyone out, fuzzing their voices together, blurring their meaningless words. Of course they're meaningless. They will make no difference to your life; you don't care about them. In fact, the one person – the singular one person – you did care about is gone. Forever. And there is nothing anyone can do to change that.

You are jolted back to reality and look up at the sound of your tutor entering the room wearing a smile she shouldn't be wearing and a dress far too colourful for your mourning. She looks at the class and beams, clapping hands together, SURVEYING the room with an expression of pure, unadulterated joy which you want to just smack off her joyful face. She spots you and her smile falters a bit, but she bounces on her heels and addresses you personally. 'I see you're back, Mr McCartney?'

'Yeah and he's being a right goddamn eejit 'bout it, inn'e?' This was Ritter. One of your once friends. Not anymore. He's glaring at you now. You don't care enough to muster one back. Or maybe it's because you don't have the energy. One of the two.

Your tutors smile is gone now. She has that awful sorry expression plastered on her face; the one which pities you openly and unashamedly and you hate her for it. It aggravates you. But you say nothing, because that isn't important. Not important.

'Well…' her voice is so condescending, and she sounds as if she really wants to tell Ritter the reason you're being an idiot but you don't care. You force yourself not to care, or else you'll cry. So you just put your head back in your arms and block out the rest of the world.

It doesn't work. She calls you up once the rest of your tutor group are doing a worksheet and though it's the last thing you want to do, you'll only attract attention if you don't. So you step up to her desk and listen to her empty words as she attempts to console you.

'Listen Paul, I'm terribly sorry about your loss.'

You force out a curt nod.

'No, I really am, and if you ever want to talk about it, come to me, because death is a horrible thing, isn't it? I lost my cat last month, and though it's not really the same thing –' she smiles and shakes her head here, before continuing, 'I was distraught. Just,' and she eyes you over the top of her glasses, fixing you with a firm expression, 'keep your head down, get your work done, and try to forget about it. It'll be fine.'

And with this hollow promise still ringing in your head, you walk back to your seat and pick up your bag just as class is dismissed, your mind vaguely registering the fact that your mother has just been compared to a cat and that you are supposed to try and forget about her death. Evidentially school wasn't the best plan your father could have suggested then, was it?

oOo

Initially, maths follows the same sort of routine, and the numbness has returned. You have lost all feeling in your body once more and you realise that you just don't have the energy to care. About anything. You are called up by your teacher once more, earning stares (and glares) from your peers, and he OFFERS to explain to them about your mother's death. You decline his offer in no uncertain terms, though he assures you that they would be extremely 'comforting' about your ordeal. You repeat your prior answer, and return to your seat where you do nothing, just rest your head on your hands and try not to think too much.

But the only thing you can see is her face; her body wrapped up in tubes and her blood in a packet next to her head; the white, tear-stained face of your father as he reports he news of her death and quickly all you can hear is his choked voice saying the awful words over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again and the feeling of pain constricting your throat and choking all the happiness out of you and suddenly you're very, very, very close to bursting into tears and the feeling has returned to your body and you're up out of your chair and rushing to the bathroom before anyone can see the tears streaming down your face or hear the sobs racking your body.

'Is he being SICK, Sir?'

'I don't know. I'd better go and check.'

You have to get there quickly or he'll get to you. You get to the block of toilets, open the door and slam it shut, ignoring the sickening feeling that you can't actually breathe and just trying to stop the pain. It's here that you realise that the numbness is just an easy way out. It's preferable. But the pain is better for your recovery, like ripping a plaster off an open wound or ending your life instead of the cancer ending it for you. You realise here that the pain minimalizes the pain, in the end.

Your breathing is evening out and you can listen for your maths teacher as you lean against the door, making no attempt to swipe away your tears which have now stopped. You can't hear him, and you figure that he must have gone back to class. That's good. You can't handle people. No. Not now. School was definitely a bad idea.

After about 5 minutes however, you hear footsteps. You back away from the door and instead try to shut yourself into a cubicle. No one can get you there. It mightn't be the teacher, but it could be a student, and that would be even more embarrassing. The teasing would be relentless if the wrong person found you crying your eyes out in the toilet. It wouldn't stop. It would make school even more unbearable.

You hear the door creak open, see the shadow on the floor. Or rather shadows, because there are two. And that's bad.

And then you hear the voice of your goddamned maths teacher.

'I think he came in here. He /is/ your friend, isn't he?'

And the voice of someone you really don't want to see.

'The very best.'

Well you're not coming out. No way in hell are you coming out and no way in hell are you talking to George Harrison, of all people. No you're not.

'Paul?' Your maths teacher.

Don't reply.

'Paul. Paul?' A pause. 'He might not even be in here, George.'

'No. No, I think … you can go back now Sir. I'll talk to him.'

There's a moment of silence before your maths teacher coughs out a 'yes' and quietly exits the toilet block, closing the door behind him and you're stuck in here with George. Your friend from the year below. You're stuck in here with George.

He coughs. You say nothing. You hear him shuffling around on his feet. You say nothing.

Finally, he speaks. 'Paulie, are y'in here? 'Cause I'd look a right Charlie if I was just talking to the toilet walls.' He gives a dry chuckle.

You say nothing.

'Sir told me you ran out of class and that he can't tell me what happened but it's important.'

You say nothing.

'Is it yer mam?'

You say nothing. But you can feel that thick horror clogging up your throat again. And it doesn't feel nice.

'She was a gear woman, Paulie. She loved you.'

You say nothing. But you can feel the sobs rising.

'She thought the world of you.'

You say nothing. But now there are tears making their way down your face.

'It's not fair though. 'Cause, an' now I'm guessing here, so correct me if I'm wrong, but she was too busy helping others to realise it got her until the end, yes? It's like yer mam t'do that. Fer others, I mean. S'not a bad thing though.'

You say nothing. But a sob escapes your lips before you can stop it and now George knows you're in here. You try and stifle the rest though, just in case he didn't hear it, or thought it was something else.

No hope. 'Paulie? Come on, don't cry. Come out. Come on, Paulie.'

His voice is so soft and so kind that you just can't help it. And you're crying again, weeping as the tears blur your vision and you gasp for air as you lean against the cubicle door, shaking against your will and just thinking of your beautiful, beautiful mother, dead.

'Paul. /Paul/.'

His voice is still kind but authoritative and that's all you really needed in the end. Just someone telling you, in utter certainty, what to do. You need some order. With your mum dead and all, the order in your life has sort of gone to pot, so that's what you needed.

You unlock the door.

And fall into the arms of George Harrison.

oOo

You don't know how no one else has come in here yet, because normally there are so many boys in the bathroom at lunch, but you're curled up in George's lap and he's playing with your hair as you rest your head on his shoulder and he talks. You aren't really listening to him, just his heartbeat, taking comfort in the fact that he's alive, and you're alive, and your dad's alive and Mike's alive and it's just your mum that's dead, and though that's bad, really, really, really bad, it's better than everyone else being dead as well. And you have George. And you have dad. And you have Mike.

'And she's not really gone, is she?' George fiddles with a strand of your hair and you realise how weird this would look if someone were to walk in on you now. Then it hits you that you're beyond caring what people think. 'I mean, we'll still remember her. She's in our minds. Especially yours. You're not going to forget her in a hurry, are you?' You shake your head dully and you can feel his smile in his reply. 'She's only gone when those who loved her forget her. That's what I think anyway.'

You smile. 'Me too.' You nestle further into his shoulder. Who would have thought that the skinny little rake was so comfy?

George laughs. 'I think we're in danger of turning soft, Paulie. Serious danger.'

You turn to look up at him, linking your eyes with his and you're quiet for a second.

Then you hug him. Because he's your best friend. And he might have just saved you.


End file.
